I can see you there, restless,
like a ghost. You dance a shadowy
tarantella through the nether regions of thought.
A delicate balance – a tightrope act.
Any time my sores seep you turn in my direction
and urge my fingers over letters,
dancing scorched landscapes through
You whistle in minor keys.
And now you hide from me
nestled in a smudgy cloud
read more feed me ,
I read books to feed you.
I read poems to feed you.
I open my dictionary to random pages
All to feed you.
It’s bizarre, I know, but without you
I am strangely empty.
Like a dog I want to call you in,
and strap you to my side
but when I set you free and read more
you show up in these lines.
Brenda Warren 2012
Process Notes: My muse disappeared, so I decided to write to her. It is reading that oils her magic.
This piece was written for The Sunday Whirl using the words in the underlying image.